


A Gilded Cage is Still a Cage

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Control Issues, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt at the DA KinkMeme: Conditioning is something very hard to escape from. Fenris catches himself fantasizing about Hawke treating him as his slave, his pet, his fucktoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gilded Cage is Still a Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note- there is a sequel that takes this into sexy, sexy, Isabela/M!Hawke/Fenris territory in the works. When it's done, I'll post it here (and there) as a part of this series, per se.

In that one perfect moment, he knew himself completely for the first time in years, and hated it. As the man he had become, he could only think that he was _better than this_ , that he owed it himself to be a stronger person. That the independence he nursed on, that he had fought so hard to win, was the only thing worth keeping and the memories that had flooded his mind were better left forgotten, tattered shrouds adorning the single clear memory of the pain.

What he had dreamed up for himself had been much more heroic, much less demoralizing, than the truth he knew and cast aside. The man that had lived in this body before it was-- cleansed-- with Lyrium had been another man entirely, as far as Fenris was concerned. Fenris could not fathom, could not sanction, a past in which he had been content.

Disgusting. Content? How could anyone be content as a slave?

And yet each time he passes under the windows of Hawke's estate, he is deeply aware of the eyes that follow him. He remembers, flushed-faced, how the elf-woman came to be a permanent fixture there. He remembers, grimly, the way his stomach had fluttered with something other than anger. That he'd snapped at Hawke. _In the market for a slave, are you?_

Hawke had looked at him like he was mad, with not even a trace of the hunger he'd thought to see there. Their companions had shifted uneasily in the silence. Fenris had, curiously, felt disappointed. _I gave her a job, Fenris._

Swallowing his indignation and something much less comfortable, he had found himself unusually speechless. Had stammered some non-committal acknowledgment and let the matter drop. The walk back to Kirkwall had found Fenris silent, lost in his thoughts, and alone out of need as much as anything.

Now he knows Orana watches him from the windows when he stalks the square at night, and he hates her for it. He can feel her silent query, can feel himself responding to it. Why are you down there, Fenris? Why aren't you up here with Master Hawke?

Why don't you want to be a slave?

Seeing her is an unpleasant reminder of those same ruined memories he thinks he would be better off without. He tries to avoid her on the very rare occasions that he visits Hawke. Every visit is just as uncomfortable and awkward as the last, and not just because Fenris left without a word of comfort to the man who looks on him with such gentle, loving eyes. Hawke sees another person, a person whom he has inexplicably come to love, and wants to share his life with that person.

Fenris sees visions of himself, prostrate on the floor before Hawke, licking the soles of his boots. Dirty soles, muddy with ash on a rainy day. He sees himself doing these things willingly, gratefully, and Hawke's face is a hollow void because he's not sure if Hawke would like it, hate it, not sure if he would see Hawke and not Danarius if he looked up. He sees himself naked and chained to the fireplace, too close but unable to free himself, hands bound at the wrist and again behind his back; feels Hawke's fingers running over his chest and the flames warningly hot at his back, and his own shame as Hawke inspects him and finds fault, and punishes him-- brands him lightly, here and there, or flogs him, spanks him-- leaves him out all night instead of bringing him upstairs.

When he realizes what he's thinking of, his mouth feels as though it's been stuffed with cotton. He is horrified, and has to leave. He rushes back to the abandoned building he has made his home, to the only functioning faucet, turns it on full blast. For several minutes he stands there splashing icy water on his face again and again, and on his shoulders and arms until the flush goes down and his breathing is steady, and the knot of desire in his stomach has turned to nausea, as it should.

Hawke could never do such a thing to him, and would refuse even if he asked, he is certain. It is not something any sane person would ask.

Yet he cannot put it out of his mind. Less and less, they see each other; Hawke becomes discouraged the third or fourth time Fenris refuses to assist him when he asks for help with his routine patrols of the city streets, his investigation of the mysteries there.

And just when Fenris begins to think he has given up entirely, the worst happens. The knock at his door comes in the middle of the early evening, and when he arrives there to let Hawke in, the other man's face is twisted with sick worry. There is no time for Hawke to stare sadly at Fenris, because he is panicking. He has brought Varric, Aveline, his most trusted, his strongest. Hawke is only a mage, though not so slender as Anders or Merrill. He needs them to protect him, as much from himself as anyone. He doesn't know what he will do. All this is written right there in that desperate expression.

He says, "Fenris, my mother has gone missing. I need your help."

If he had any intention of severing their ties, this would be the moment. But Fenris can't do that, even if he was certain of what he wanted. He doesn't even speak, just nods and follows them out of Hightown to search for Gamlen.

They find blood, instead.

And the blood leads to a horrible subterranean hideaway, with a shrine to a woman that looks just like Leandra Hawke, and the worst has already happened. It's awful. Fenris has seen Danarius do terrible things, can remember what Hadriana did to him and to others with vivid, almost crippling clarity. Those were nothing to this. As it's happening, he feels a disconnected horror, wondering if Hawke will be as angry as Danarius in such a situation, if it will all end in an explosion of magic and blood and rage at his loss.

But Hawke is no blood mage, and no Danarius. No slaver. Just a man, just a boy. Just a single person who has lost everyone he loves no matter how he tries to help them, whose own brother may yet bring the axe down on his head.

He wishes he could forget that moment, with Hawke kneeling by the monstrous corpse that wore his mother's face. The sound of Hawke weeping, a painful sound. The way he tried to smile, as they carefully led him out of the tunnels. The shock that turned into despair when he realized that he would have to return to an empty house. How his face fell, and he buried it in his hands and wept.

There is nothing Fenris could do or say, but he still goes to Hawke. When he says as much, the answer is _please, say something. Anything._

He tries.

The months after are harder than any others he yet remembers, even though they are not _about_ his pain. Maybe that's why. Maybe knowing the anguish another person feels, and wanting to soothe it, is the heavier burden to bear. He learns that Orana plays the lute, and shyly offers to sing; not for her sake, because her presence unnerves him, but because it is something Hawke seems to enjoy, and there is little enough that can bring a smile to Hawke's face, these days.

Was this what it was like, when he first let slip the darker secrets that he so jealously guards? Did Hawke feel powerless to save him, even though the pain was already past and only lingered?

But no; such things come naturally to Hawke. And though it may not be right, what comes naturally to Fenris is to serve.

So he does, in small ways, stubbornly clinging to his pride and his belief that he does not want to be, and is no longer, a slave.

It is Danarius's return that forces him to face himself.

Fenris realizes, when he sees Danarius's face, that he had completely forgotten the terror, the overwhelming hatred that he had felt for those three years before he'd met Hawke. For so long they had been his only reality, and yet he had forgotten them: but there is Danarius on the stairs, and even though every man and woman in the Hanged Man is more his friend than any Tevinter Magister's, no matter the coin, Fenris is terrified. He thinks he could not stand it if Hawke did not stand by his side. He imagines, with horror and worse, a perverse sexual thrill at the thought of such coldness, that Hawke might accede to Danarius's request, turning him over. He almost thinks it would be better to kill himself than live through that.

But of course, Hawke doesn't do anything of the sort, and in a blaze of magic and blood that seems to happen instantly, Fenris has bought his freedom forever.

The words said were _Fenris isn't a slave_ , and he is grateful for them; but when he turns to kill his sister in a fit of rage at her betrayal, what stays him isn't even a hand.

It is Hawke's voice, telling him _don't_. And he hates himself, and Hawke, because he lets her leave as Hawke asked, and discredits everything they've done here. Hawke would say it is his duty as a friend; Varric even chimes in that he knows the regret firsthand and wouldn't recommend it. The truth is unchanged, and Fenris feels his face get hot with embarrassment at how simple it is.

Hawke said to do something, and he did it. For the last six years, that's all he's done. He has let himself believe otherwise, occasionally rebelled to prove to himself his own free will, but when things matter, he has always come back to heel. Without Hawke even realizing, Fenris has made himself Hawke's slave. It feels natural, and comfortable; like his whole live has prepared him for exactly this.

So when Hawke comes to him in his mansion, he is skittish and unsure, and agitated, and then apologetic.

Hawke asks, "What's the matter? You seem-- a little more uneasy than I'd expect, all things considered."

He can't tell Hawke that he has been imagining what it would be like, to become a part of Hawke's estate, to live as he did with Danarius. He fantasizes nightly about such a life; he has begun to practice, as if he'd asked and Hawke had shown interest, walking on all fours. He practices the art of binding himself so he cannot escape (with every fiber of his body attuned to the sound of anyone approaching from the foyer). He has mastered several knots and can just as easily untie himself from all of them within the thirty seconds it would take even someone at a dead run to reach his room at the heart of the mansion.

Flustered, red-faced, he begins pacing awkwardly. "I- it's- I do not wish to trouble you," he says at last, "with something so menial."

The answer is only a rueful smile. Hawke is beginning to develop wrinkles around his eyes, maybe from the stress or the ease of his gentle smile. His lips are full and soft, and Fenris remembers suddenly what it felt like to have those lips on his throat. He clears his throat nervously and turns away.

"I'm your friend, Fenris." Hawke winces, and continues earnestly, "Well, I'd like to be more than your friend, but at the very least-- I'd like to think I'm your friend."

"You are," Fenris answers with such alacrity it startles them both. "You are more than that." He catches himself, biting his tongue before he says any more, but Hawke only raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. He tries again.

"No matter how menial or unusual your problem might be, I'd be happy to help if I can."

Fenris swallows hard, clenching his hands into fists. The gauntlets click against themselves. Usually he likes the feel of the mansion but today it reminds him strongly of Danarius's old estate and the memories he would rather discard that go along with it. He says nothing, for a long time, keeping his back to Hawke so he will not betray his thoughts. The seconds become minutes and, discouraged, Hawke slowly stands, forcing a small laugh that seems meek and sad.

"I shouldn't take up so much of your time, however. If you change your mind, then--" he seems about to say that Fenris knows where to find him, but thinks better of it and simply trails off, staring helplessly at the line of tension that is Fenris's back. Silently, he turns to leave.

Fenris almost lets him, but words he didn't think he had the gall to say slip past his clenched teeth.

"--it's embarrassing."

"What?" Hawke pauses, already at the door, looking back in surprise. He almost seems hopeful that Fenris will continue.

He would be, Fenris thinks, nervously, a very good and _kind_ master. He already is.

"I-- I have difficulty talking about it." He sits down, stands up hastily because sitting makes him feel as though he is relinquishing the power of the conversation. And then, it seems somewhat fitting to do so.

So he sits down at Hawke's feet, when Hawke returns to the room and sits down on that same old ruined chair. That Fenris has chosen to sit on the floor doesn't faze Hawke, but he seems intrigued-- perhaps suspicious-- of Fenris's sudden closeness. "If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to, you know," he adds, smiling again.

"I don't want you to tell me that," Fenris breathes, feeling his ears red with anger, shame. He keeps his eyes on the floor. He knows he can't say any of it if he's looking into those eyes. "I-- I want you to give me orders. I want to follow them." His voice drops low, a growl in the dim light of his fireplace. He thinks again of being chained up in the Hawke mansion, fantasizes about what else Hawke could do to him there and stutters. "I enjoy following your orders. I-- wouldn't be unhappy, serving you. And."

He dares a look at Hawke's face and can't continue, because Hawke looks horrified.

"Don't look at me like that," he sighs, the shame bubbling up into his throat. He's hurt, and doesn't know why. He can't stand himself for wanting this; for being such a hypocrite. Worse that now, Hawke knows. "Don't pity me."

"I'm not," Hawke answers sharply, a strange iron in his voice that strikes a nerve and has Fenris's full attention quite suddenly. "And if you're telling me what I think you're telling me, I-- don't know what I should believe from you."

"I can't _stop_ thinking about it," Fenris hisses, glad that he doesn't have to say exactly what he means for Hawke to understand. Speaking of it is already strenuous enough. "I don't know why, but I can't."

He imagines being bound by someone who has no obligation to make it possible for him to free himself, and shudders slightly. That would be what it meant to be with Hawke. If Hawke were interested, which it's safe to assume he is not.

Hawke's voice, pale with careful calm, disagrees. "Are you saying you want to be my slave, Fenris?"

He can't speak. He tries, and no sound comes out. His stomach has dropped and he's torn between confusion and shame. _Why_ does he feel this way?

His answer is the soft sensation of Hawke's fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, up one ear. Between two fingers, Hawke grabs the ear by the tip and pulls, gently enough not to hurt too much, carefully twisting it until Fenris has to look up at him, shocked, gasping at the sensation, stinging and oddly still pleasurable. He had never told Hawke explicitly that elvhen ears were particularly sensitive to the touch, but it's somewhat common knowledge. Still, few people take advantage. He had forgotten what it was like. He had forgotten what Hawke could be like, when given free reign to do as he pleased. He remembers now, caught there in the stern glower of Hawke's piercing eyes. "I want to hear you say it, Fenris."

Those same gentle fingers release his ear and begin to stroke his face again; knuckles against his cheek. Subconsciously, he turns his face into them, into the way Hawke cups his face with that hand.

"Tell me what you want."

Still ashamed, but encouraged, he answers. It is oddly easy, for something he has struggled to say for years, now. "I want to be. Subservient."

Hawke shakes his head, unsatisfied. "More." So Fenris tries, stumbling over those things he is yet embarrassed to admit.

"I want to be forced to call you master. To-- be punished when I disobey you."

"And you _will_ disobey." It isn't even a question so much as a demand. Hawke would not accept a passive slave. If Fenris hadn't asked, he suspects Hawke would accept no slavery at all. But he isn't the only one who's lain awake at night these last few years, regretting. Sensing that his answer is required despite its obvious nature, he gives it.

"Yes."

"And?"

"I want to be your slave."

Hawke pulls Fenris's face close to his, and kisses him, sucking his lower lip in. He is an aggressive lover, and shoves his tongue into Fenris's mouth until the only option is to suck on it obediently. Hawke has endeavored to pull Fenris up while Fenris wasn't quite paying attention, and now they are both braced in that ancient chair, Hawke's hand steadying Fenris, gripping his ass. When they break apart, Hawke tells him, very quietly, something that he may have wanted to say for years.

"Then from here on out, that's what you'll be." Fenris gulps, excitement thrilling up and down his spine at the look in Hawke's eye, and nods obediently. When they leave, it is together. They walk the streets un-threatened and just as soon, they are in the Hawke estate, Hawke guiding him up the stairs with soft, unyielding hands. Bodahn and Sandal are out for the night with friends, Orana long since asleep.

Fenris spends the night begging for mercy, aching with need, bound to Hawke's bed with silk sheets and expert touch. No matter how hard he tries he cannot get Hawke to fuck him, only tease. There is no way to get Hawke to let him come; and when the sun rises at last, Hawke unties him, binds his wrists together with a strand of soft red string, and tells him that he must not leave. Whatever else he does is up to him, but until Hawke removes the red string, he is not to leave the mansion, nor free himself.

It's too much. The look in Hawke's eye, the power of Hawke's words, the way Hawke refuses to be rough with him no matter how much he begs.

He's never found his release without being touched before, but it makes a mess of the sheets and as punishment, Hawke forces him to sleep in the bed once it's been changed-- with Hawke holding him close, warm arms around his chest.

Fenris falls asleep feeling as though he belongs; he is, however fleetingly, happy; and because he belongs, he knows at last that he is safe.


End file.
